Heather picked up her glass and looked at it, clenched in her hand, the ice cold against her palm. She felt frozen. “That all sounds really nice,” she said in a soft voice.
“I think it will be great,” Cara said with enthusiasm.
“Uh, listen, I’d better get to work,” Heather said. She rose to her feet, shaking. “That final painting has to be in the mail by Friday.”
“Sure. Good luck with that.” Cara pushed back from the table as well and squeezed Heather around the shoulders, oblivious. “I’ll make dinner! Seared ahi tuna and a grapefruit salad sound good to you? I’m so excited.”
With a smile still frozen on her face, Heather turned and walked away.
HEATHER PUT ONE foot in front of the other making it halfway across the living room when she heard her canaries chirping. The molting season was a time birds were weakened, lethargic and quiet. So it was a special treat to hear the sweet sounds. She changed course and went to stand by the three large cages. Her presence delighted the little birds. They jumped from perch to perch, tilting their heads to look at her with their shiny eyes. Moutarde was deepest in the molt. A few long wing feathers lay at the bottom of his cage. Pavarotti’s feathers were scruffy, as if he’d been in a fight and lost. The tiny pinfeathers on Poseidon’s head made him look like he’d been given a buzz cut. Below the cages feathers littered the floor like snowflakes. The old feathers were being cast off, making room for the new.
“What a shaggy group we are,” she said to them with a gentle smile. She went to get a bag of flaxseeds and went from cage to cage offering each bird a pinch. She sang softly and talked to them. Poseidon came to the end of his perch closest to her and chirped his questioning tone. Delighted to hear his voice, Heather stepped back and called his nickname: “Hey there, Posey. How are you feeling?” After three chirps, the little white bird let loose with a melodic song. It was softer than usual. A brief serenade, but rich with water notes.
Heather heard the song and felt a surge of joy. It was especially rare to hear a canary sing during the molt, and thus all the more special. Oh, little bird, she thought. You have no idea how much I needed to hear your song today.
Inspired, or possibly not to be outdone, Moutarde and Pavarotti came to their top perches and began to sing as well.
Heather closed her eyes and listened to the soft music. The melody soothed her and transported her mind to that place she went when she was tapping into her creativity. She knew this place well. It was where she went when she painted. Where she got her best ideas. She couldn’t force them. She had to mentally let go so her mind was open.
In the beautiful song of her canaries she heard a warning note. Pay attention, the notes told her. Listen! Not to Natalie or her father. Not to Cara. Not even to Bo. For once she had to listen to herself. She’d been asking all the wrong questions. What did everyone else want her to do? This was a turning point in her life. The question she had to ask herself was, what did she want to do? Bo’s words came to mind: Promise me that whatever decision you make, you’ll do it for you.
She looked again at her birds. They were quiet again, sitting on their perches, watching her in all their scraggy, molting adorableness. Waiting for her next move. Heather had been a caged bird for most of her life, her song muted by depression and anxiety. She had things she’d wanted to say, but always she’d said nothing. She never wanted to hurt anyone’s feelings. But in the end, she hurt herself.
“I hear you,” she said to her birds. “It time for me to shed all my insecurities and fears. Let them fall to the ground. It’s time for me to find my voice and fly.”
Heather knew what she had to do. She felt suddenly free, as though a great burden had been lifted from her shoulders. She hurried through the living room and stopped before the table where Cara sat working on papers.
Cara looked up from her papers. Her face was open and curious.
“Cara, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m going to move in with Bo.”
Cara’s face registered surprise. She set down her pen. “But we just agreed—”
“No, we didn’t agree. You told me what you wanted, and I listened.”
Cara seemed to recover slightly. She pushed back her chair and stood up. “But, Heather,” she said in a reasonable tone, “this is a terrible idea. You have to be sensible. Is it money? I know you don’t want to take more money from your father. I applaud that. You don’t have to pay next month’s rent. I’ve got you covered. The last thing you should do is make your decision based on money.”
“My decision has nothing to do with money. It couldn’t be further from that. I’m making my decision based on love.”
Cara sighed. “It’s not that easy, Heather.”
“Why does it have to be hard? Isn’t love supposed to be easy? Cara,” she said, her voice rich with emotion, “I love him. He loves me. What else do I need to know? You told me that one summer isn’t long enough to know. You fell in love with Brett in one summer, and married him. I’m just moving in with Bo!”
Cara turned her head. When she spoke her voice was lowered. “What if it doesn’t work out?”
Heather shrugged. “Then I move on. I still have my talent. My life. You’re the one who told me not to live in fear. I’m listening to you. If I don’t act on my instincts, then I’m afraid to act on what I know is right. And this is right. I feel it in my heart. In my soul. I know what to do.”
Heather paused to look out the window. The palm tree was gently waving its bright green fronds against a brilliant blue sky. The ocean sparkled in the sunlight like diamonds. She turned to Cara again. “I’ve got to go.”
“Now?” Cara asked, once more surprised.
Heather nodded. “I’ve got to tell Bo.”
“You’ve only just got back!”
Heather couldn’t stop the grin that spread from ear to ear. “I’ve been waiting my whole life to make my own decisions. Now I have—and I can’t wait another minute.”
She turned to leave, then spun around to face Cara who stood staring at her, eyes wide.
“Thank you,” Heather said sincerely. “Thank you!” She turned again and flew back to her room to pack.
CARA WAS DUMBFOUNDED. She strode toward Heather’s room with long, purposeful strides. Their conversation was far from over. Cara had to convince Heather to stay at the beach house. She needed her to stay. She couldn’t be left alone. She reached the bedroom door, lifted her fist—but couldn’t bring herself to knock.
Of course she could say none of these things. All these reasons were because of what Cara wanted Heather to do, not what she truly felt was in Heather’s best interest. She brought her palm to her head and pressed hard. Heather was right. She had to make the decision that was best for her. And Cara had to let her.
She turned away and walked back to her chair and slid down onto the wood. She folded her hands on the table and waited.
She didn’t have to wait long. Heather opened the door to her room and emerged in a flurry of motion. Once again she dragged her travel bag behind her. The wheels made a whirring noise as she hastily crossed the floor toward the door.
“Heather, wait,” Cara said, rising and going to meet Heather by the door.
Heather looked at her. She was wearing a glow of happiness. But her eyes were wary.
“Good luck,” Cara said. She saw Heather’s expression shift to relief, and in a rush the two friends hugged.
“Cara, I’ll be back. I just have to go tell Bo,” Heather murmured into her shoulder.
Cara nodded almost imperceptibly, but enough to let Heather know she understood and supported her. “Be happy, sweet friend.”
Heather squeezed her tight. “I will.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
THE FULL MOON illuminated the beach like an amphitheater. Smooth and glistening shells and bits of stone reflected the light, twinkling like earth stars. On the ocean, white ruffled waves stretched farther up the beach as the tide rose.
Cara sat on
Lovie’s dune and gazed out at the sea as she did most nights. Her head was filled with images and memories of the summer she had fallen in love with Brett, brought to the forefront of her mind from her earlier conversation with Heather. She smiled ruefully. It had been only one summer. . . . At that summer’s end, Cara had known without a shadow of doubt that she loved Brett. She could not see her life without him. She hadn’t thought twice about giving up her career in Chicago to stay in the lowcountry with him.
Who says it has to be hard?
She laughed to herself. Love wasn’t hard, she thought. Losing love was.
Over the past month, her friends had taken her back to places that held happy memories of her and Brett. At first the memories had left her heartbroken. But time, that all powerful healer, had allowed her at last to remember Brett without the stabbing pain of bitterness, sorrow, or regret. Those feelings would return, she was sure of it. Grieving was a long process. She was grateful nonetheless for moments of serenity and, dare she say, joy, remembering the beautiful times they’d shared. She dreaded thinking what her life would have been like had she never met him, loved him, and spent the most memorable ten years of her life with him.
The evening breeze drifted across the beach. The long hot days of summer were ending, and all that was green would soon turn to gold. She drew letters in the sand with her finger: B-R-E-T-T.
Brett had been the great passion of her life. Loving him was unlike anything else she’d experienced before or since. Looking back, she saw their life together as a gift—a brief few years stolen from time. And now she had to accept that time was over. She would hold the memories of their love close for the rest of the days she was given. But for now, she had to move on. Heather, for all her youth and inexperience, had seen her path clearly and chosen to follow it. She was inspiring. Could Cara do any less?
She’d given the subject of what to do next a great deal of thought. She was fifty years old. Not young any longer, but certainly not old. As Brett had told her, she had twenty, thirty or more years left to live. In that time, she’d like once again to have something of her own. To do work she cared about. Not for success or money . . . Of course, she needed to find a way to earn dollars. And soon. But the pursuit of wealth would not inspire passion. If she was one of the very lucky, she would be passionate doing something she was paid to do, but would prioritize the passion above the dollar sign. Brett was the first example that came to mind. Heather was another. Neither of them got rich from their work, but they worked from morning till dusk and enjoyed the time spent in between. Life didn’t get much better than that, did it?
Cara had loved her work in advertising, she realized. Developing ideas, writing copy, driving her ideas home to a boardroom full of clients. The flow of adrenaline, the thrill of the chase, rising to the challenge, deadlines, decisions—she missed all that. It was part of who she was—a part, she realized with sudden clarity, that she’d tried to squash for quite a long time.
She exhaled slowly. Ideas and thoughts began batting about in her head. New plans and possibilities . . . Suddenly Cara jerked her head up, her gaze narrowed on the water. It couldn’t be, she thought, even as she leaned forward, squinting, alert. The dark shadow moving in the surf was large—much too large for a horseshoe crab. It could only be one thing. A loggerhead!
Cara remained stock-still on the dune; she didn’t move a muscle as she watched the turtle inch her way out of the surf onto the beach. The loggerhead waited there, sniffing out the territory. If there were people walking on the beach, dogs, coyotes, any disturbance on the sand, Cara knew that the turtle would pivot and return to the safety of the sea. Coming ashore was an exercise in instinct and courage. The loggerhead had to leave the sea—her home where she was strong and graceful—and enter a foreign world on shore to labor awkwardly against gravity under the weight of her carapace. She would not risk the hard, plodding trek across the beach to the dunes to lay her nest unless her instincts gave her the green light.
Cara’s first thought was of Heather. She’d told Cara several times how much she hoped to see a sea turtle. Catching one as it came ashore was a matter of luck. And God’s good grace, as Lovie would have said. But Heather was gone to Dewees.
Cara didn’t dare move lest she spook the turtle. The shadowy bulk moved forward. Her flippers stretched out to drag her body forward, and then she paused, catching her breath. Every few steps the turtle stopped again. She made good progress up the beach, inching her way straight to the base of Lovie’s dune.
It can’t be a coincidence that the turtle came tonight, to this dune, she thought with wonder. Cara smiled tremulously at the idea that the turtle had come right to her, as though predestined. Thanks, Mama.
This turtle was a big girl, a wise and experienced mother who’d been nesting on these beaches for many years. It being August, this wasn’t her first nest of the season, either. It might even be her third or fourth. Likely her last. After tonight’s labor, she’d return to the sea and a well-deserved rest.
The turtle began moving again. Cara could hear the flippers scraping the sand. Hidden behind the sea oats, she crouched and watched in awed silence as the turtle scooped up a flipper-full of sand, then another, again and again for almost an hour until she’d finished digging her nest. Then silence.
The moonlight lit up the night and Cara could readily see the majesty of this ancient ritual. She quietly slunk back from the front of the dune, then scooted around beachside to get closer. It was said that once a sea turtle began laying her eggs, she went into a kind of trance and was unlikely to stop until her last egg was laid. Cara found a spot far enough away not to distract the turtle, but close enough to see the white, leathery eggs fall into the nest. Her shell was dusted with sand and pocked by a few barnacles, trophies from thousands of miles of swimming.
She thought back to the first time she’d witnessed this event more than ten years earlier. It was a night much like this one, balmy with a bright moon. Lovie had been sitting on her dune and spotted the turtle coming ashore. She’d run to fetch Cara and bring her recalcitrant daughter out to the beach. Lovie had known then that Cara needed to see this.
And Cara believed her mother had somehow guided this turtle to her tonight because she knew her daughter needed to see it again. To be reminded of the continuity of life. That death followed life and life was renewed once again, over and over with the steadiness of the seasons. The memory of that night with her mother had been her touchstone through many difficult times since. Cara knew this night would, as well.
The turtle steadfastly laid egg after egg into the nest. While she labored, great streams of tears flowed from her eyes. Lovie had called them “a mother’s tears.” Cara had to take her word for it. She was not a mother. She never would be. She’d come to accept this.
But she was a woman. Her feminine intuition understood fully the turtle’s sense of duty as she risked everything to lay her eggs. She identified with her maternal strength of purpose as she carefully, one flipper of sand after another, covered her nest, then flipped sand into the air to camouflage the next generation from predators. And when her nesting was finished, Cara comprehended the mother’s regret as she turned away from her young, as all mothers would one day, to begin the long, lonely journey back to the sea, never to return.
Cara rose to her feet to walk a safe distance behind the turtle. The turtle stopped frequently, gulping air, exhausted from the arduous night. Determinedly she moved toward the sea, scraping the sand, dragging the burden of her shell. At last the turtle reached the first touch of salt water as the lapping waves slid up the sandy beach to greet her. She raised her head, sniffing the salty air. Above, the moon spread a golden path across the sea, as though guiding her home. She moved quicker now, with renewed energy.
The turtle never looked back. She plowed forward with fresh resolve into the first wave. The black water washed away the sand, revealing the glistening, burnished brown shell illuminated by the mother moon. With the next
stroke of her great flippers, the turtle was swimming. In that instant she was transformed from a plodding burdened beast into a creature of grace. Buoyant and free from the drag of gravity, she swam farther out to sea, her head in the air. Cara watched, hands at her lips, tears in her eyes. One final breath, and the turtle slipped beneath the darkness of the sea.
Cara stopped at the water’s edge. The sea was warm on her toes and swirled around her ankles. So inviting. But she dared go no farther. This was the sea turtle’s home. Not hers. She stared out at the sea a little longer, hoping she might catch one more glimpse of the turtle. But she was gone.
Cara smiled then and felt a great rush of gratitude to her mother.
Mama, I see what you were trying to tell me, she thought. It was time for her to be more like the sea turtle she’d been named after. To be resilient in the face of tragedy. She had no more time to waste on self-pity. This was her journey across the sand. She was, like the sea turtle, once again a solitary swimmer.
She made her way back across the beach toward home. Overhead the stars winked. Cara had her eyes cast forward. She didn’t see that, behind her, her footprints intermingled in the sand with the tracks of the great sea turtle until human and animal tread became one. A single ephemeral mark on the sand that couldn’t be told apart at all.
Part Four
RELEASE
Barbara J. Bergwerf
BROWN PELICAN
Pelicans are sea birds and some of the largest and most easily recognized birds found on the East Coast of the United States. Brown pelicans are gray-brown birds with yellow heads and white necks, and characterized by their long bills with a unique underlying throat pouches. They feed by diving into the water from as high as sixty-five feet, but contrary to common belief they do not become blind from the impact. After nearly disappearing from North America in the 1960s and 1970s, brown pelicans made a comeback thanks to pesticide regulations.
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